


Love's Philosophy

by Argyle



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-14
Updated: 2004-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Two poets spend a day on Lake Geneva.





	Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river  
And the rivers with the ocean,  
The winds of Heaven mix for ever  
With a sweet emotion;  
Nothing in the world is single,  
All things by a law divine  
In one spirit meet and mingle -  
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven  
And the waves clasp one another;  
No sister-flower would be forgiven  
If it disdained its brother;  
And the sunlight clasps the earth,  
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -  
What are all these kissings worth  
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1819

 

Gentle waves lapped against the white-washed planks on the side of the small sailboat, the mid-morning light glinting against their small crests. The delicate breeze of the lake lifted the scent of freshly baking bread and lilac blossoms across the waters and ruffled the loose canvas of the sails. Percy Shelley shifted lightly against the soft, slim cushioning of his seat. Gazing thoughtfully down to the water, he saw his own face quietly positioned against the refracted familiarity of Mont Blanc. He laughed to himself, imagining the peak as a sterling fang set to tear through the washed hue of the sky. Setting his book aside, he reached into the small leather sack at his feet, retrieving a large plum. As he sat holding it tightly for a moment, feeling its firm skin bend to his touch, he heard a rhythmic stroking of water against the natural din of the lake. He twisted around with a grasp against the handrail, his eyes quickly scanning over the horizon and the thin, wooden dock that lay perched on the shore several hundred yards away. There he saw a slender form, light against the misty currents of the lake, swiftly swimming toward him. After a moment’s inspection, he shook his head, smiling slightly as he realized who it was: Lord Byron.

Shelley set the fruit down and stood, looking down at Byron as he approached within a few feet of the boat. “Good morning, Byron,” he raised a brow. “I trust you slept well?”

“Terribly, I’m afraid,” Byron tilted his head up, his eyes meeting Shelley’s. He paddled stationary in the water, breathing deeply. “The thunder was unforgivably loud. I did, however, manage to look over the manuscript you’d given me. It is magnificent.”

“I thank you, though what you say is perhaps unwarranted,” he frowned and bit his lip self-consciously. “Have you seen Claire yet today?”

“No,” Byron grimaced almost imperceptibly and shook his head, again immersing himself underwater for a moment. Shelley saw the flush of red on his shoulders, a rapid effect of the morning sun’s caress, against the man’s otherwise delicate pallor. He leaned forward, gripping one hand against the cool metal of the rail, and reached the other to Byron, who took it and hoisted himself up over the ledge. “Thank you,” he nodded.

Sitting down across from Byron, Shelley nodded. He extended his palm and Byron shook it warmly. Feeling the wetness on his hand, he chuckled quietly. “I’m sorry – I haven’t any towels to offer here.”

“Think nothing of it,” Byron smiled. He raked a long hand through the thick, mahogany colored curls of his hair, gently shaking out drops of water. There was silence for a moment and as Byron’s tungsten gaze held Shelley’s own with a steady bearing, only the erratic dripping of wet trousers upon the wooden floorboards could be heard. Byron then glanced to the leather volume that sat against Shelley’s thigh, a faint smirk passing across his lips as he read the spine for its name. “Wordsworth, hmm?” he tilted his head pensively.

Shelley blinked, at once remembering the book that he had set to his side upon Byron’s most unconventional arrival. “Yes,” he nodded, placing his palm over it. “He makes of Nature a worthy religion.”

“Though the poet’s own politics certainly leave much to be desired, I would say.”

“Of course, you know that I share your view on the subject.” Shelley paused, reflecting for a moment. “Man has the ability to make the ultimate contact with himself through Nature. Such a philosophy must be recognized within oneself if ever are further explanations to be found.”

“And what of men among themselves?”

“Of course there is a prominent sight to personal relationships. It must be as such,” he swallowed, moving his hand through the air wistfully. “Although it is perhaps harder to attain.”

“Do you think so?” Byron leaned forward.

“Yes,” Shelley closed his eyes. “There is an attachment to the stars through love.”

“Only love?”

“Perhaps,” he shook his head. “And terror.”

“Ah.”

“You think better of that?”

“I do not,” Byron laughed quietly.

“I had thought as much, and yet…” he trailed off.

Byron arched a brow, “What?”

“It must be of the sort that one can grasp onto. If you tangle yourself so deeply in its clutches, there is no knowing where it will lead.” He then paused, running the tip of his tongue unconscientiously over his lips. “There is also something to be said for the act of love,” he blushed slightly, breaking his gaze away from Byron’s. At this Byron began to laugh, once more reaching forward and grasping Shelley’s hand.

“Spoken like a true scoundrel,” Byron grinned.

“Nonsense,” Shelley smiled airily, his touch lingering against Byron’s. Then, reaching to the leather bag by his feet, he removed a bottle of wine and a set of glasses. He handed one to Byron, who nodded considerately as Shelley uncorked the bottle with an easy pop and filled each with the glistening liquor. He held it up, admiring the white shimmer of the sun as it was caught and consumed by the golden throat of the wine. His eyes still fixed over the rim as he swallowed, Shelley glanced toward Byron, the length of his neck, the arch of his bare shoulders; he furrowed his brow, quietly suppressing a sigh.

“So,” Byron nodded, setting his glass against the cushion beside him and turning his attentive watch to Shelley once more. “Please do continue.” At this Shelley laughed warmly, returning the nod.

Thus they spoke for hours, Shelley becoming animated as he expressed some of his more lofty theories of the supernatural and modern science. He felt his face flush with enthusiasm, and from time to time he caught his own reflection in the waters as he held his violet gaze wide toward Byron. Shelley mused that although Byron seemed to show less interest in such topics, he was able to see the soft smile that shot across Byron’s half-parted lips as he spoke and the way his stare followed the movement of Shelley’s tapered fingers as they darted through the air at the whim of his excitement. Byron, in turn, spoke very favorably of the clear climate of Greece and condemned the constant English drizzle that he had so endured during the last years since his travels abroad. When a sense of quiet had finally settled between the two, the sun was descending into the horizon, casting a lavender luminescence across the still waters of the lake.

Shelley leaned against the palm of his hand, the point of his elbow resting into the smooth wooden rim of the boat. He let his gaze scan across the horizon, settling for a moment on the dock that was now lit by a single lantern and passing back to Byron, who sat across from him, arms spread open on either side before the rail and head tilted toward the soaring form of the snowy peaks. Byron’s eyes seemed to soak up the fading light, in turn reflecting back a colder blue glint from behind the dusky curl of his lashes.

He turned slowly, a clever smile playing across his lips, seeming to at last feel the weight of Shelley’s gaze upon him. As Byron leaned forward lithely, Shelley looked up with faintly startled eyes and watched him grasp something up from the seat with the palm of his hand. Byron held it close as he reached into his pocket, carefully pulling out a small penknife. He flicked it open with an ease of his wrist and set it against what he held. Shelley smiled, realizing that it was the plum that he had set aside hours before, and watched as Byron slid the small blade through the tender skin of the fruit with a flash of silver against the juice that dripped delicately from his fingertips as he offered Shelley a half.

“Brilliant,” Shelley grinned, taking the fruit. He watched as Byron replaced the penknife in his pocket and with his long fingers gently twisted out the plum’s pit from his half, tossing it over the side of the boat with a quick turn of his wrist. Byron looked for a moment at the slice in his hand and then bit into it with a solid grace, nearly swallowing it whole. He idly reached over the side of the boat and down towards the water; with a cupped hand he rinsed the sticky nectar from his fingers, shaking the frosty drops back into the lake. Shelley watched as Byron’s eyes traced back to him and he took an amorous bite of his own piece; he chewed slowly and savored the sudden wash of saccharine flavor on his tongue, a light trickle of juice running from his lips to his chin. Before he was able to instinctively streak the back of his hand across it, Byron leaned forward with a swift movement and softly cupped Shelley’s chin in his hand; he grazed his thumb across the drop, rubbing it away. Shelley inhaled, slightly stunned by the touch, though he made no movement to shy away from it.

Shelley then felt himself caught in Byron’s gaze, tumbling into the shining depths that seemed at once to be pools of distant worlds. Byron’s brow creased as he leaned closer, finally bridging the breath between them. His lips grazed over Shelley’s own lightly at first, and then more roughly as they meshed and he felt himself pulling Byron closer, his hand firmly spread upon the cool, bare skin of the other’s back. With the tips of his fingers he stroked the taught muscles there and the consistent form of the spine.

“Percy,” Byron breathed against his ear, placing a hand at the back of his neck, fingers passing through the golden mass of windblown curls. “Tell me of your philosophy,” he stared into Shelley’s eyes, setting the loose fold of his collar aside with light fingers. “Tell me again of the religion created from Nature.”

Shelley laughed lightly against his cheek and, reaching forward, he gently brushed stray curls behind Byron’s ears. As their lips met again, he tasted the tart flavor of the plum on Byron’s tongue as it smoothly swept across his own. A shudder passed through him and he suppressed a catch in his throat as he felt the cotton hem of his shirt lifted high above his head and off of his arms. Byron kissed his neck, the curve of his collarbone, the thin lines of his ribcage. Shelley moaned softly as he set his lips against the dark curls of Byron’s hair. He thought that there was something to be said, some mathematical formula of slopes and sighs or some philosophy of silence, for the understanding between the stars and the pale fire that then danced within Byron’s eyes.

Pressed against the soft cushions, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, not knowing where one world ended and the other began. Distant thunder echoed against the alpine peaks, against the rims of the sailboat; perhaps it was a tempest gathering its wits in the mires or the memory of such an evening conceived from early-June. Shelley gazed upwards, the canvas of the sails lustrous and light against the breath of the sky. As he rested his head against Byron’s chest, he heard the steady heartbeat and wondered whether some things were better left without a philosophy, after all.


End file.
